


Lost Tools

by applethief



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Sex, body guard dynamic, references to canon typical violence but very little actual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-02 21:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16795123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applethief/pseuds/applethief
Summary: Bull loses things, sometimes. He does not mean to, but then, nobody loses things on purpose. He mostly loses things in the fog of blood, and the pain and noise of combat.





	1. Lost Tools

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh hello this is my first time posting a fic anywhere so I hope someone enjoys it! I’ve been thinking about these two a lot lately, particularly about Bull and the Qun and how he consolidates his existence with what he's taught, and how he sometimes just... does not. Bull is a very interesting character!
> 
> So it made me want to write, and then I thought, well, I wrote it… maybe I should… post it instead of letting it rot on a hard drive for a few days before deleting it??? Anyway I hope I posted it right and ticked all the right boxes!
> 
> I’m not a native English speaker so sometimes my English clunks, sorry!

The Iron Bull has two jobs. 

The first one is to serve the Qun and watch the situation unfold.  
The second one is to serve this Inquisition and ensure their herald does not get maimed, picked off, smushed, poisoned or otherwise perishes. 

The second works very well with the first, so far. The Qun does not love the idea of demon-spewing holes in reality, and the bas herald is the only known key to closing said spew-holes.

The herald is a bas saarebas, because of course he is. He is a lot of things, Bull guesses, the chantry would have liked him not to be, all the way from the tips of his pointy ears to the bare feet which track mud and snow through the chantry. He smiles and laughs, untamed by the situation and he climbs buildings and slippery roofs like a spider. He thinks, vocally and loudly, that he is no herald, he is simply cursed by happenstance. 

Haven is chaotic. Bull watches and tallies the factions that come, and those who go, and he watches the herald make sense of it, patching differences he barely understands. In the vacuum of leadership, the herald fills that role naturally. He spends long hours in conversation with the lady ambassador, absorbing how she deflects, smooths and greets. He observes the commander catch attention with short sharp words and he marks who the Sister Nightingale watches. He sees what people want and need. Bull does the same thing. But the herald then finds ways to sort it out, give it to them; Bull stores it and uses it later. Tools and leverage.

And he asks many questions. Bull answers his share of them, some carefully, some happily. This bas saarebas has little guile, he is simply curious. He stands on one bare foot in the snow, then the other. Dalish, sensibly, wears boots, but the bas saarebas does not. Bull thinks it is defiance more than habit.

The herald makes some subtle passes, and then some unsubtle ones, then scoffs when they are deflected. 

~~~~~~

Protecting the Herald’s ass in fights makes Bull wish for a shield. For a ‘dangerous thing,’ he poses a remarkably small threat on the battlefield. 

Bull loses things, sometimes. He does not mean to, but then, nobody loses things on purpose. He mostly loses things in the fog of blood and the pain and noise of combat. He fucks up. The herald slips out of his view and in the next moment, Bull whips his head around, starkly ripped out of the rush of battle, as the herald shrieks in pain. 

The bas herald confides his clan had few mages. He was often kept away from hunting or fighting, mostly learning healing rituals in the relative safety of their guarded, hidden camps. The herald mumbles this as he carefully mends a deep gouge in the Iron Bull’s flank. The sword was meant for the herald and the depth of the cut would have left the slight elf spilling his guts and bits on the ground, had the Bull not shoved him out of the way. The bas-saarebas knows and his hands are shaking, but he puts on a mask of easy smiles. Deft hands finish their work but he lingers by the Bull longer than necessary. Bull’s eye fixes on the bruise blooming along the herald’s jaw. He feels a weird little tug in his chest.

They are not alone, but they are obscured by tent fabric and the noises of the Inquisition’s people distributing blankets and fresh game to refugees. The elf smells earthy and his fingers are long, elegant. His red hair cascades down his back and he bites his pretty lips in worry as he carefully examines the now healed flesh, as if it is not surrounded by old scars. If Bull makes a move, he is fairly certain he can have a lapful of naked, red-haired elf in less than ten minutes. 

Bas saarebas with weird glowy demon sealing hand. This is a job. Conceivably, a future mark. It would be a great upper hand. 

It’s too shitty.

Bull smiles slightly, seeming unaffected. “It’s no big deal. Just doing my job, boss.” 

~~~~~~

Val Royeaux. The Herald casts about with both awe and poorly veiled fear. Assassinations are not uncommon here, so Bull stays close.

The seeker deals with some chantry people, but subtlety and charm are not her thing. The herald steps in smoothly, and things go well, until inevitably the Orlesians throw about the knife ear and rabbit comments. 

The bas herald flicks an ear and there is a slight flaring of nostrils, but his voice is steady and his face bright and unchanged. Bull, by his side, sees the tiny sparks of flame that fly between his fingertips, quickly extinguished with a flick which is most likely interpreted by the others as an impatient gesture. 

Bull gets it.

He particularly gets it as he watches the two elven mages spar a bit away from camp, later. They are journeying back to Haven and the herald throws fire at his fellow mage like he cannot summon enough of it fast enough. The apostate chides his reckless, imprecise casting and makes him practice ice, instead. The herald is in a poor mood for ice, sets fire to some shrubbery and yells. The apostate gives him a reproachful stare any tamassran would be proud to master. Normally this subdues any childishness the herald gets up to, but tonight it only infuriates him further, so the apostate leaves in a dignified huff.

“When you’re pissed, it’s better to bottle it up and save it for the guys you don’t like.”

The herald bares his teeth at him and again Bull feels his chest tug. “I didn’t like anyone in Val Royeaux but I don’t think putting them on fire would do much good.” 

“True. I’m sure we’ll run into some shitty demons or whatever, soon.” Bull picks up a couple of hefty sticks and throws one at the herald. “I can’t put out fires, but the real stuff will feel just as good.”

~~~~~~

He loses the herald again, in the chaos as Haven crumbles. He was there one moment, gone the next. Bull searches frantically. 

But it is like the snow has eaten him. No trace. 

He tries not to think about it as he trudges through the snow in the mountains, old injuries leaving his joints stiff and painful. His bulk has him sinking through the icy crust repeatedly. He helps push a cart of supplies along, but it keeps getting stuck in the snow.

He volunteers to watch as they set up camp. He watches for any hints of red against the white until his eyes blur. He hears wolves howl. The cold is biting; Bull wears a heavy fur cloak. He considers the herald’s bare feet and light attire. Then he pushes that thought out of his head. They march for another day, and then they camp again as a blizzard flares up. Bull watches, again, but there is little to see. 

Bull thinks, at first, that his mind is betraying him, because a tottering silhouette approaches through the storm, red hair whipping about his head. Bull runs, as much as his stiff joints will allow. It is not very fast, he keeps sinking into the snow again. The approaching silhouette is suddenly more tentative in its movements.

When they can make out each other’s features, Mahanon breaks into a delirious smile. “I thought you were a bear! A great, horned bear!” Then he collapses. Bull catches him and instinctively lifts him out of the snow. He hears people running, behind him.

“Sure wish I wore shoes,” Mahanon slurs against his furs.


	2. Stupid Sugar Cakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Final Pam voice] I do dis

Mahanon loses no digits to the mountains or the blizzard, despite being so ridiculously under-dressed. 

Some of the religiously inclined interpret the Herald’s miraculous survival as another sign he is sent by their Maker to mend the world. It boosts their spirit to the point of feverish chanting. Bull thinks it is entirely down to Mahanon depleting his own magical reserves to keep his body whole, from the way he quaffs lyrium potions until he nearly vomits.

He staggers around on his own two feet within the hour. A number’s been done on him, but there’s a healthy colour in his cheeks. Bull wordlessly rustles him up some boots and cloaks. Mahanon wordlessly laces Bull’s cold, old aches with magic to relieve them. 

The blizzard fails to drown the Inquisition. 

With a proper fortress under their thumbs, and the public spectacle of the talking darkspawn and the maybe-blight dragon, the Inquisition grows rapidly in numbers and renown. The Iron Bull expects Mahanon to recede from his assumed leadership into a figure-head role when the faces become too many. But the elf surprises him. He involves himself ten-fold, hands on at every turn. He confers much with his advisors. They bicker, but they never overturn his decisions. It is no surprise when Mahanon is officially placed at the front of the organisation as Inquisitor.

It’s not problem free. For all that the Inquisitor is a people-pleaser and a clever and composed negotiator to the public eye, he’s also terribly independent and stubborn in his private matters. He also, Bull suspects, doesn’t sleep much, running mostly on mage’s lyrium potions and elfroot smoke. It makes him irritable. 

The sister Nightingale stows the Inquisitor at the top of Skyhold’s tallest tower, even before the promotion. Bull carefully inspects the tower and approves of the decision; Mahanon, even without everything he brings to the table as himself, closes rifts. Without him, they’re just pouring water out of a sinking boat. Getting into the tower without crossing the heavily guarded main hall is an inhuman feat. 

Mahanon, naturally, hates the tower and sneaks out of it to sleep elsewhere at any opportunity. Which leads to Mahanon’s second problem; Bull himself. Bull’s main role within the Inquisition remains ensuring the Inquisitor does not get maimed, smushed, poisoned or otherwise assassinated. It was easy to be quiet about it in Haven. Skyhold is larger, messier, Mahanon is a valuable target now, and Bull is not inconspicuously shaped or sized. 

Bull solves both problems when Mahanon, previously clear and tolerant of their roles, decides to bristle at what he now interprets to be a babysitter. When Mahanon confronts him, Bull simply shrugs and gestures at Mahanon lazily. “Does needing help with Orlesian politics from Josephine bother you? Are you annoyed every time you need reports about troop movements from Cullen?” 

“Of course not. I can’t do everything.” 

“This is the same thing. You can watch every shadow and anticipate every way people may try to kill you. Or you can let me do it and go about your merry way doing your inquisitor-things and your hand waving and all that… weird stuff.” The Iron Bull eats a tiny, ridiculous sugar cake. They are brightly coloured and perched on a decorative silver plate on the war table, along with some reports on venatori activity the Inquisitor wants the Chargers to investigate. Mahanon hates reports, but he loves sugar cakes. 

Mahanon watches him sceptically, arms crossed. “You do not do those things. You just drink and eat and look intimidating.” 

The Iron Bull does not take offense. After all, that’s exactly the impression he’s going for. “Works out well for you.” The Inquisitor scoffs and returns to his papers, and Bull could leave it at that. But he suspects Mahanon will fume and come at him later, so he decides to finish this. “How many times have you been killed this week?”

“That is exactly my point! Nobody’s tried to kill me, ever!” Bull arches a single eyebrow at that. “Except for in battle, which is fair.” Bull’s eyebrow remains arched. Mahanon stares at him. Then he stands with start. His chair tips over with a clatter and some papers fall off the war table. “People try to kill me?”

“Just yesterday, that chevalier at dinner tried to poison your wine.” 

“What? Why?!” 

“Who cares? And two days before that-”

“Stop. Stop. I can’t think about this!”

“And you don’t have to, Boss.” And when the Qun demands the neck of the Bas Inquisitor must snap, well, at least it will be quick. Mahanon breaks the last sugar cake in two, and hands Bull the bigger half. 

The third problem is clothes. Bull does not care about this problem, but he witnesses so many arguments about it, he becomes extremely savvy in the topic of the latest cuts and weaves and dyes from Orlais by the end of it. The Inner Circle dubs it the Wardrobe Issue. Varric loves it; ink spatters his stubbled chin as he furiously notes the latest developments. The lady ambassador, having found Mahanon so receptive to lectures on manners and etiquette, is completely unprepared for the rebellious huffs and tantrums the subject causes from her ever so agreeable mentee. 

Mahanon hates everything they throw at him. Too restrictive, too many buttons, too tight, too loose. The fabric is too stiff or the fabric feels weird. The colours are bad and the embroideries are ugly. Too Circle-y, too Chantry-esque. Ugh, belts! The boots are too heavy and it is not even snowing so what’s the point. 

Bull thinks it is the shoe issue again. Just amplified tenfold by sleep deprivation, lyrium potions and some sort of underlying identity crisis.

“I’m sure the healers and soldiers will be terribly bothered that I am not wearing shoes and silks!”

“It is a symbolic matter. Neither paupers nor nobles are likely to take us seriously when our leader cartwheels along the battlements in rags!”

Rags is a slight exaggeration, but his clothes are not finer than those of the common Inquisition foot soldier. It does not do, next to extravagant nobles in gowns and gilded masks. Bull sees that, but he has just resolved the tower and the body guard issue. Chucking himself into the Inquisitor’s poor graces again does not help him do his job. 

When Josephine finally throws her arms up, The madame de Fer offers to adopt the Wardrobe Issue. She conscripts the Vint, unsurprisingly. She also, more surprisingly, conscripts Solas and the Bull. She rustles up an elven tailor from an alienage, with expertise in dalish cuts and fabrics. 

They pick out fabric samples and dyes with the tailor’s aid. Solas has input on embroideries; what he designs is not dalish, more closely resembling the stark old murals decorating Skyhold. Bull knows little of fabric quality, but he has seen what colours Mahanon absolutely hates and what he resonates well with. He steers them clear of white and red, towards wheaten yellows, greens and sky blues. 

By the end of the week, the lady Vivienne presents the inquisitor not with whole garments, but with the fabrics and the proposed embroideries, and a plate of the tiny, colourful sugar cakes surreptitiously placed between them as a buffer and a bribe. Mahanon likes the fabrics, and he likes the tailor. 

It’s clever. By letting the inquisitor approve of the garments before the garments are finished, she’s provided him with an illusion of choice, while moving the issue along swiftly. The finished garments are subtle in their extravagance. Mahanon approves of them. More importantly, any Orlesian snob with half a brain cell can see the dyes and the exquisite thread of the precise embroideries are fucking expensive. Bull likes them, too; they emphasize slender legs and a narrow waist Bull very much wants to wrap his hands around. Some of the lighter ones bare shoulders or collar bones.

There are even some light slipper shoes Mahanon can be convinced to wear. The belt issue is solved with embroidered, bright waist sashes. 

“They look almost dalish,” Mahanon comments as the tailor adjusts the hem of a tunic. “Is that wise? All politically-like.” 

Bull and Vivienne are seated on chaise-lounges on what has become Vivienne’s balcony. She pours the three of them a golden red drink into tiny, tiny crystal goblets. Mahanon’s hair is pinned up so that the tailor can easily make adjustments, and Bull watches his bared neck in the reflection of the full body mirror. Mahanon catches his eye and smiles. 

“Differences can be a great source of strength, darling.” 

With that, she’s won Mahanon entirely. Lady Vivienne is one to watch.


	3. Gaatlok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was two chapters, one was a bit boring and stopped making sense without the second so I snipped them apart and glued them back together into one. Anyway so it's a bit long...
> 
> Anyway, spoilers: Thar be sauce ahoy! What I mean to say is this chapter has sex.

Lady Vivienne does an unquestionably fine job advising the Inquisitor on appearances. As is often the case with how Mahanon works with the inner circle, he chooses, she refines and guides. The results feel entirely like Mahanon with none of the intimidating and ostentatious touches she prefers in her own wardrobe. 

It is a cool spring day. Mahanon is clad in a practical outfit for the journey. His golden green cloak is trimmed with embroideries depicting budding apple trees. He is saddling his hart, another chore he stubbornly insists on doing himself, as their party is preparing for yet another trek. Blackwall is hovering and fussing while Mahanon waves him off, because Mahanon is pretty bad at sorting out the complicated straps and buckles. He looks radiant. 

“Why don’t you tell him? You both want each other.”

Bull does not startle even as the spirit boy speaks into his ear, as if he were there the whole time. Bull is pretty sure he was not.

The Iron Bull’s nostrils flare. He has asked Cole not to mess with his head many times, one more time will not make a difference. He starts mentally listing the cities of Par Vollen alphabetically so that he will not think more thoughts for Cole to poke about in. 

“I don’t poke. It’s right there.” 

“Well, Cole. Sometimes the things you want aren’t good for you.”

Cole breaks out into a toothy smile. “I’m glad you know this, The Iron Bull.” 

“What the shit is that supposed to mean?” 

Cole is gone. 

The boy only seems to pick up on the thoughts on the surface of his mind, which is a moderate relief, but sometimes the thoughts that breach that surface are not things Bull chooses to think.

~~~~~~~~

They watch the grey waves buffet the qunari dreadnought. The venatori camp is much larger than they were told it would be, and the Chargers are helplessly pinched.

They are not even in combat but Bull smells blood and his ears are filled with roaring. The weather is miserable. He is soaking wet. Mahanon’s hair lays flat against his skull and one red lock sticks to his lip. It runs across his face and Bull thinks of cracked skulls.

Bull knows the Inquisitor is not to be underestimated. Yet every time Mahanon looks at him with large, unguarded eyes and an open smile, Bull sees himself snap that scrawny, lovely neck again before Mahanon even knows he has been betrayed. It rattles him to his bones when Mahanon whips around, bares his teeth at him and angrily points out what Bull knows to be true but would rather ignore. 

“This test is for you, not me. Choose, Bull.”

They lock eyes. Mahanon has no guile, but Bull feels utterly transparent pinned by those coal black eyes. He can suddenly understand why people insist on shrouding him in all that religious bullshit. That chest tug again. The moment lasts for a second but feels stretched thin. Then Bull lifts his war horn and sounds the retreat, to Gatt’s protests. 

The sound of the horn feels like an acknowledgment more than a choice. 

“You’re making a huge mistake, Hissrad!”

“That! Is not his name!” Mahanon rounds on Gatt. 

“No, I suppose it’s tal-vashoth now!”

Bull has a feel for how Mahanon’s temper works, but it’s been a long day for the both of them. Mahanon’s fists flare and his mark crackles. Bull grabs for him, but Mahanon grows faster, stronger by the day and Bull has underestimated him again. He launches at Gatt in a flash of ice. It’s an impressive display, but Bull nonetheless feels certain Mahanon will be the one with a knife in his spleen. Gatt sees it coming, too, and steps nimbly to the side, his spell-shrouded opponent whistling past harmlessly. Before either elf can strike again, the dreadnought explodes with a resounding boom which knocks them off their feet. Bull, having braced for it, remains standing. Gatt is on his feet fast, first, and brandishes his sword to strike, but Bull steps between the elves.

“Lay off,” he rumbles. 

“Dust.” Gatt spits on the ground and vanishes into the foliage. Bull and Mahanon, still on the ground, are shrouded by the smoke of the sinking dreadnought. They can hear the seeker shouting from further inland. If this was a test, there may be more Qunari in the wood. Clean up crew. There are certainly too many venatori in the hills to handle. If Bull was just Bull, perhaps he would throw himself at them, but he has Mahanon to consider. Bull hauls the Inquisitor to his feet and they run, but Bull still smells blood and smoke, hears the rushing in his ears. 

“Are you fine? Are you sad?” Mahanon breathes as they traverse the slippery, wet terrain. 

Bull whips his head around and snaps. “Of all the stupid-” Then he tumbles sideways, down a little hill. Mahanon is nimble, but he grabs for Bull’s hand as if he can steady him. In that untethered second as the world goes sideways, Bull considers that poison and neck snappings can all go home, Mahanon’s kindness is what will eventually be the death of them both. Bull’s mass pulls them both over and they fall.

Ass over tea kettle. It is not a long fall. This’ll make a great story, Bull thinks. He is on his back, in a muddy, shallow creek. Mahanon touches his cheek and peers into his face. “It may still be stupid to ask if you’re fine.” 

Bull exhales slowly and sits up. Mud drips from his horns. “The Iron Bull needs a drink, but he is fine.” 

Mahanon hands him a muddy flask from his belt. Bull swigs deeply. 

It’s lukewarm herbal tea. Of course it is. “I was hoping for something stronger, but I’ll use my imagination.” 

Mahanon has burrs and leaves in his hair and there is mud spattered on his jaw. He watches Bull but there is no transparency-inducing, soul-pinning creepy fire in his gaze now. Just that curious look which makes Bull’s stomach churn, his chest squeeze, as he imagines gently wrapping his hand around his neck to crush Mahanon’s windpipe. 

But there is no Qun now. So he reaches out and slowly brushes his thumb along the elf’s jaw, wiping the mud away. Mahanon tilts his head into the touch.

“I really need a drink,” Bull murmurs. 

“Were there people?”

“What?” 

“On the dreadnought.”

The Iron Bull is not sure. His face remains nonchalant. “The Qun does not waste resources. If they thought this was a likely outcome, then they prepared a way out.”

“That is a relief.” Mahanon rests a hand on Bull’s. It’s the weird hand. Bull flinches. He doesn’t mean to. Mahanon pulls his hand away, but the Bull catches it. Places an apologetic kiss on Mahanon’s slender knuckles. 

“This looks like it’ll be a good story, Chief!” Krem calls from the top of the hill.

The Chargers look lightly singed, but none of them are missing parts.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Iron Bull leads a good life. He fights, eats, drinks, laughs loudly, he fucks. He takes what pleasures he wishes to and he does not hold back. He has great companionship. He would not trade Krem or the Chargers for his eye, or for the world. Yes, Bull thinks he can step entirely into the role of The Iron Bull.

The Iron Bull would absolutely grab even the slightest opportunity to fuck a holy elf. Bull may just take The Iron Bull up on that offer.

But the Iron Bull has always been tempered by the Qun. Without it, Bull isn’t sure what inhibits him. 

He feels untethered.

~~~~~~~~

Mahanon’s advisors sweep him into yet another political game as soon as they return to Skyhold. There are reports to go through, nobles to dine. With Cullen and Leliana nearby, he’s not likely to need anyone else to make sure he doesn’t drink poison or get stabbed, but Bull is looking for distractions. He shadows Mahanon as usual. Nobody tries to kill him today, which is, honestly, the norm; The Sister Nightingale is extremely well informed about the people who pass through Skyhold. 

Mahanon keeps slipping Bull tiny sugar cakes. It does not go unnoticed by Leliana or Josephine, who exchange knowing glances. Mahanon swipes a carved alabaster dragon from the war table when only Bull is looking. The nobles are dull. Mahanon is impossibly charming. 

When it is late, Bull follows Mahanon to the stairs of his tower, as is usual, but when he turns to leave, Mahanon grabs his arm. 

Mahanon pulls the dragon figurine out of his pockets and gives it to Bull. “You like dragons.” 

“Stolen just for me? Why, thank you.” Bull smiles slightly and tucks the dragon into his pocket. 

Mahanon climbs a few of the stair steps and stares at him, almost eye level. “You’re very hard to read.”

“Yes.” 

“You know how you… kissed me. At the storm coast.”

Bull nods slowly. “I recall.”

“Well… If you wish to do it again, it would be welcome.” 

Bull chuckles. “This how dalish court?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I would’ve had a nice lady of a strong magic bloodline picked for me, so I didn’t get to practice courting much. I just had a nice secret friend who’d occasionally chuck me in a bush and fuck me all quick-like.” 

Bull considers the mental image for a moment. “You want that?” He steps into Mahanon’s space, squeezing him against the wall. Mahanon has space to sidle away, but he does not. Bull looks for fear, but all he finds is a bit of a sheepish smile. He takes Mahanon’s hands in his own, kisses their knuckles tenderly. “You want the Iron Bull to hold you down and fuck you?”

Bull takes both of the elf’s slender wrists in one hand and pins them over Mahanon’s head. He squeezes lightly, just enough to hurt, and looms over the elf. His voice is a throaty rumble. “You couldn’t take it.” Mahanon’s ears flatten and his breathing shudders. He is thoroughly intimidated. Good. He gets it. “You can back out at any point.”

“Oooh no! Ma serannas, Bull, please, do not be mad!”

Bull lets go of Mahanon’s wrists. That’s fine. The idea is tempting but the reality is a lot. “Hey, no problem. Just wanted to make sure you knew what you were wishing for.”

“No! No, I’m into it, really into it, I just, uh… came.” Mahanon is entirely beet red. 

Bull blinks, then laughs. “Your enthusiasm is noted.” 

“It’s fine! I’ll return the favour!” Mahanon puts a tentative hand on the buckle of Bull’s belt. But he doesn’t stray further or attempt to open it. He waits for permission. This will work well, Bull thinks. He swipes along Mahanon’s lips with his thumb, hums and steps away, climbing the stairs.

He has not been up here since Leliana first suggested using the tower as the Inquisitor’s chambers. The room is not at all regal. Lady Vivienne would hate it. Several colourful, mismatched woven rugs cover the floor. The canopied bed is placed in front of one of the balcony doors. It is piled with furs and blankets and one of those fancy, Orlesian down-stuffed throws. The bed, Bull notes, looks sturdy. 

There are shelves stacked with books and trinkets. Some, Bull recognizes as trinkets gifted to the Inquisitor. Some are just toys and things Bull has seen Mahanon find curious on their journeys. A wooden toy horse here, an empty perfume bottle in a funny shape there. 

There is a desk on which stacks of paper are actually neatly organised. Charcoal sticks, nice blank paper, and a stack of drawings.

His balcony doors are thrown open and the room is freezing cold. Mahanon bounds past him to close them. “I like the fresh air. I’m gonna change. No, you know what, I’ll just be naked, since we’re getting there anyway. Is that fine? It’s fine!” There is wood already arranged in the fireplace. Mahanon lights it with a flick of his hand. 

“We’re gonna need some rules,” Bull says as he looks around.

Mahanon rolls his eyes and blows raspberries as he wrestles his tunic over his head. “Great, I love rules, obviously, you big ol’ romantic, you.”

“Two rules. They’ll be simple, so you’ll remember them even when you’re… preoccupied.” Bull thumbs through the top few drawings. Some are of places they have been. Some are of their fellow companions. Some are him. Some are scenes of devastation.

“Fine! Give me your two rules.” Bull looks at Mahanon just in time to see a nude foot vanish into the stack of blankets on the bed. Mahanon’s clothes are strewn across an out of place Orlesian-style couch. 

Bull removes his belt. At the sound of the buckle clinking, Mahanon’s head pops out of the blankets. He smiles, unabashed.

“Rule one: When you are here, with me, you will always be honest about what you feel. Rule two: If you ever want to stop, for any reason, for any amount of time, use the word katoh. Then we will stop, no questions asked.” 

“I… understand your first rule but am uncertain the second one is necessary…”

“I will give you orders and do things to you. You can respond however you like. Obey, fight me, or let go, whatever you please. Because you have a word you can use when you truly do not want something.” The Iron Bull gives Mahanon a moment to mull things over as he removes his shoulder harness. 

“What's your word?” 

“Katoh?” 

“Good. Now, come here.”

Mahanon stares at him. Then he smiles smugly and sinks into his blankets. “Make me.” 

Good. He understands the game. Mahanon does not resist as Bull pulls him from his blankets to appraise his nude form. 

Mahanon pushes and pulls at their game for the evening, sweetly obeying or stubbornly refusing on a whim. Bull, in turn, rewards sweetness with caresses and kisses which Mahanon enthusiastically melt into, and play-punishes the naughty moments by pinning Mahanon in place, lightly pinching and squeezing. Nothing that pushes at his limits. Mahanon melts into that, too. 

When Mahanon nips at his throat with his teeth, Bull pins him belly-down on the bed and pushes a finger into him. Mahanon falls apart entirely, blubbering choked pleas for more. Bull falls apart, too.

The fucking is a lot rougher than Bull planned. When he is entirely inside the slender elf, he leans down and kisses his silky ear. “Do you remember your word?” 

“Yes. Katoh. Don’t stop, please,” Mahanon breathes. Then Mahanon whimpers and moans incoherently as the Iron Bull holds his hips still and uses him so that it will certainly leave bruises.

When Bull comes, he buries his face in Mahanon’s auburn hair, one hand stroking his neck. Mahanon reaches his own peak, too. Bull feels his thighs spasm as they squeeze his flanks. He comes with a quiet exhale, sighing into Bull’s throat, spilling onto his own belly.

Rain is pitter-pattering on the windows.


End file.
